


When Sparks Fly

by grimmfairy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling, Emotional Baggage, M/M, More Cuddling, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Slow Romance, sexy times later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:22:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmfairy/pseuds/grimmfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's journey from flatmates/friends to more the friends to lovers. Sherlock notices a change in John's behavior, one that he is not complaining about even though he is somewhat surprised by it. This is how the world's greatest detective solves the mystery of John. From the beginning to the fall and beyond. Sherlock and John traverse unknown terrain in their relationship, starting with emotions and eventually leading up to more physical expressions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were a great many things that Sherlock noticed about John Watson. His odd habit of tapping the space bar with his right thumb while typing, without actually pressing the key. His routine of making tea: milk first, then sugar. Never sugar first. Sherlock never asked why because he already knew the answer. John was a creature of habit. He did things the same way everyday because that was what felt comfortable to him. Even now, with his seemingly never-ending running behind Sherlock, John's little routines stayed the same. This made it easy for Sherlock to notice the changes to come.

Sherlock was acutely aware of John's need for affection, made apparent by the shorter man's tendency to flirt with every woman he came across. There was the one with the nose, the one with the dog, the boring teacher, that woman with the strange laugh (ghastly!) and of course, Sarah. Sherlock had watched with great amusement at times a women flat out refused John's advances. Sherlock decided that John's need for physical affection stemmed from his childhood. Certainly John had not had an abusive family, just a slightly distant one if his sister Harry was anything to go by. Add on the trauma of John's military service (as he had once said, he had bad days), and Sherlock was left with one emotionally starved man.

The first time John let his hand linger on the back of Sherlock's neck for just a second too long while reading a case file over his shoulder did not go unnoticed by the detective. John never mentioned it, and for a week afterwards did nothing of the sort again. Then, while taking a cab, John sat close enough to Sherlock that their knees were touching. He didn't alter his conversation with Sherlock, but he didn't make an effort to move over either. Sherlock, while slightly startled, allowed the contact nonetheless. If he was honest with himself, he was enjoying the closeness. He supposed he had noticed the way John had been watching him more closely. The way he paid extra attention to where Sherlock was, made sure he ate and slept, took down that mugger with just a touch too much force when he threatened Sherlock.

After that cab ride, John's affections became longer, more frequent, and more overt. Squeezing Sherlock's arm when he helped him out of his coat, grasping his shoulder as John put Sherlock's tea in front of him. An especially bold arm around Sherlock's shoulders after one too many drinks after a case. Every time, Sherlock allowed the contact, even enjoyed it and reveled in the warmth of John's skin. As a child, he had never exactly been showered by the hugs and kisses and cuddles that other kids shared with their families. Certainly it had affected him in some ways, and Mycroft even more so. Until now, he hadn't given his childhood a second thought. Sentiment was irrational, as was regret for a childhood that could not be changed.

It wasn't until one month after what Sherlock liked to refer to as "the initial contact" that his relationship with John was truly and irrevocably changed. John was in a strange, distant mood brought on by the events of the day. A car bomb had killed a traveling diplomat and several bystanders had been injured. When John and Sherlock arrived on the scene, the bodies had not yet been removed and the smell of burnt flesh was thick in the air. This time, John had been the one to make deductions about the bomb before Sherlock could.

"Under the car, on a remote timer or triggered via cellphone. Plastic explosive with shrapnel packed inside, contained blast meant to inflict maximum damage and panic." John's clinical tone and rigid stance reminded Sherlock once more that he was a soldier. This was obviously not the first time he had seen such carnage. John's eyes were looking at the twisted metal and melted rubber before him, but he was seeing something else. Something far away in the past.

"Quite right, John." Sherlock agreed softly, placing a tentative hand on John's shoulder. John startled slightly at the touch, but didn't shrug it off. It was the first time Sherlock had tried to offer his own affection back to John, though it was quite subtle and most likely mistaken by John as the normal gesture of platonic comfort. Sherlock offered some conclusions to Lestrade that John didn't pay attention to and they went back to their flat, sitting in silence with John's knee touching Sherlock's.

When John tried to make his tea that night, his hands shook slightly, so Sherlock took over, making sure to rest his hand on John's for a moment as he took the mugs from him. He added the milk first, then the sugar. John still looked far away, in a desert place that was soaked with the blood of his friends and enemies alike. Sherlock found himself moving over on his sofa so John could sit next to him as the watched crap television. John inched closer and closer, his hand laying so close to Sherlock's that even Sherlock's limited social skills picked up on what John wanted.

"Oh, come here." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He slung and arm around John's shoulders and pulled the smaller man to his side. John's head laid awkwardly on Sherlock's shoulder and his hand was on his chest. It was an awkward position for both of them at first, but John shifted until his head under Sherlock's chin and his arms were wound around the painfully thin waist. "It is the social norm for me to ask you what is bothering you."

"Oh...Well, today just brought up a lot of memories I don't want to think about." John shrugged, and Sherlock felt the tensing and relaxing of muscles. "Sherlock, are we...cuddling?"

"Yes, if that is what you choose to call it." Sherlock replied, his deep baritone rumbling in his chest. John laughed suddenly. "What?"

"It's just...I never imagined I would be cuddling you." John shifted slightly so he was facing the tv more. Sherlock didn't mind.

"But you have been thinking about it for awhile, have you not?" Sherlock questioned. "It came as a bit of a surprise when you began showing affection in a more than platonic way."

"Oh, believe me, I was more surprised." John pulled his feet up onto the sofa and tucked them underneath himself, feeling like a teenager.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Silence on John's part, at least. Sherlock was yelling at the television as he often did, pointing out how the smudge on someone's left sleeve exonerated them as the father or what have you. John half-paid attention, laughing occasionally, but mostly he just enjoyed the feeling of being held. He was usually the one that did the holding in past relationships, and he enjoyed being needed, but the feeling of being protected was much better in John's opinion. John took the hand that Sherlock didn't have wrapped around his shoulders and began tracing the bluish veins on the palm. Sherlock noticed his doctor's ministrations and watched, fascinated. It did feel rather interesting. Not quite tickling, not quite massaging, but somewhere in-between. John, for his part, was mostly just giving into his curiosity. Sherlock's hands, perpetually in motion, were something that John had first noticed as attractive. Pale, slender fingers that danced gracefully over the strings of a violin just as easily as they picked locks or wielded a riding crop. Those fingers curled over John's smaller hand and held tight, not painfully so, but firmly without the intent of letting go anytime soon.

"John...what happened with Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked softly. "I do not mean to dredge up bad memories, but as they are already on the forefront of your mind-"

"No, it's fine." John sighed, sinking further into Sherlock. "I was raised with a lot of patriotism. Queen and country, honor and glory and all that." John paused, studying their intertwined fingers. It took a moment for him to continue. "There was very little about Afghanistan that was honorable."

"You were injured. Shot in the shoulder." Sherlock stated. He knew that, John had told him even though Sherlock had worked it out minutes after meeting John. He had even seen the scar once or twice. A large, knotted mess of scar tissue and the resulting lines from the crude surgery to remove the bullet fragments. "Surgery performed in less than optimal conditions."

"Well, not every Army doctor was as good as me. And it's hard to concentrate while under fire with a patient bleeding out and writhing in pain." John stated sarcastically, but it was half-hearted. Then his voice softened. "There were so many shortages. Supplies, food, antibiotics, morphine...Most of the time, we just had to make do with what we had and it wasn't enough. The IEDs were the worst. Most of the men in the vehicles died before we could get to them, the rest have to live on without a limb or with scars, and the memories of those that weren't as lucky."

Sherlock, sensing the John was done talking for the night, moved his arm from John's shoulders to his waist and pulled him closer still. John tensed briefly, considering whether or not this was a good idea, but he was drained from the day.

They would figure it out tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke the next morning, head on the armrest of the sofa and Sherlock gone. Sounds of footsteps, pacing most likely, came from Sherlock's room. He sat up slowly, gently rubbing his scarred shoulder to relieve some of the soreness from sleeping in a less-than-ideal position. He thought about the night before. Had it really happened? Had Sherlock, mister "I have no use for sentiment", really initiated cuddling? It was hard to believe. Certainly John had been slowly exploring his feelings, determining what he really felt for Sherlock. Slowly was the operative word, however. Last night's cuddle session, instead of clearing up any doubts he had, had only created more questions that John could not quite answer.

Sherlock was truly his best friend, as strange as it seemed to outsiders. But they didn't see what John could see. What John, in all of his extraordinary ordinary-ness, could see in the most extraordinarily unusual man he had ever met. They didn't see the way Sherlock allowed Mrs. Hudson to embrace him and rub his shoulder when he was upset. Didn't see the way Sherlock's eyes hardened when a man accused (guilty) of beating his wife had tried to hire Sherlock to get the charges dropped. Didn't see the way that Sherlock averted his eyes respectfully when John came downstairs for late-night tea with tears in his eyes and visions of Afghanistan in his heart. Those people who dismissed Sherlock as a sociopath and moved on with their lives, who accused him of being a fraud or called him "freak", didn't see all of these things. And yet they considered themselves fit to judge the man. Ridiculous. Honestly, was it any wonder that he was so confused emotionally? John had never considered himself gay, had told Sherlock that the night they went out for dinner. And he wasn't lying, John didn't feel any attraction towards other men and never had. He had always been strictly interested in women, although his luck with them was limited.

John stood with a sigh. His vertebrae popped and his muscles protested.

"God, I'm getting old." John snorted. He could hear traffic outside the window, and the sound of quiet footsteps on the stairs.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called as she climbed, with sight difficulty. Her hip was obviously acting up today. "Oh, John, hello. I was just bringing up some of the shopping."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I think Sherlock went up to his room." John took the bags from his landlady and began to put the contents away. He had to rearrange some containers of God-knows-what and jars of a suspiciously reddish-brown liquid in the fridge to get the milk inside. Mrs. Hudson looked warily in the direction of Sherlock's door.

"Oh. Do you think he'll come out any time soon?" John had to suppress a laugh at Mrs. Hudson's concern, however touching it was. Sherlock had a habit of retreating into his room, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, shouting at anyone who made the mistake of knocking on his door.

"Maybe. We'll find out, won't we?" John checked his watch. He didn't have a shift at the hospital today until later that night. He hated night shifts because he was much more likely to encounter the "worst". The "worst" were the patients that John hated to see the most because deep down he knew there wasn't much he could do for them. Abused women and children (and the occasional man) with claims of falling down the stairs, drunk drivers and their victims, drug addicts O. on their preferred poison. The ones that John tried to save, but deep down knew he would probably see them again too soon in the emergency room.

"Well I hope he doesn't start shooting my poor walls again or splattering blood on the carpet like he did last week." Mrs. Hudson fussed.

"That was part of an experiment, one that helped release an innocent man." Sherlock's bored voice sounded as he emerged from his room, clad in pajamas and his signature robe. _At least he's wearing clothes,_ John thought. _We really need to have a quiet discussion about last night as soon as Mrs. Hudson goes downstairs._

"But did you have to do it here, Sherlock? The mess I had to clean up." Mrs. Hudson scolded, sounding very much like a mother.

"Lestrade refused to let me use the yard and Bart's did not appreciate my last experiment in blood spatter very much." Sherlock answered with his usual tone of 'why-don't-you-know-this' arrogance. John, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, watched the familiar exchange. Sherlock had not so much as glanced at him yet, and john wasn't sure that he wanted him to. What would Sherlock see on John's face? Would he see the confusion John felt on his face, the lingering traces of comfort he had felt in Sherlock's embrace? The fear he felt? The fear that he would damage him and Sherlock's relationship with a single mistake, a single misinterpretation?

And then Sherlock made eye contact with him, and he knew that he saw it all. Sherlock's eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch and understanding flickered in his deep eyes for a moment before he turned his attention to the window. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you lock the door?" Sherlock cut off Mrs. Hudson in the middle of whatever she was saying. John hadn't really been paying much attention.

"Sherlock, you really must be more careful." The tapping of an umbrella on the stars. A perfectly manicured figure appeared. "You never know who will just walk in."

"Mycorft, go away." Sherlock rolled his eyes like a petlant child. In many ways, whenever his brother was around, Sherlock DID become a petulant little brat. Great, John thought to himself. This was going to end one of two ways: Sherlock annoyed and refusing whatever case Mycroft had brought him, or Sherlock still annoyed and grudgingly admitting that the case was interesting.

"Sherlock, I need a favor." Mycroft said. Though his face looked as though he had just stepped in something incredibly disgusting. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned upward slightly. John raised his eyebrows. Well that was new.

So much for his quiet, frank discussion with Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ask me again, politely this time." Sherlock said mischieviously. Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Will you join mummy and myself for tea tomorrow afternoon?" Mycroft bit through each word, Sherlock's amused (and somewhat annoyed) expression growing. John, for his part, was just standing there next to Sherlock feeling unbelievably confused.

"That is a favor that would cost you dearly in the future, Mycroft." Sherlock siad, turning his back on his brother and heading to the corner where his violin rested. John shot his brother a quick apologetic look.

"Tea with your mother. That's the favor." John raised an eyebrow. The Holmes brothers certainly kept him on his toes.

"Yes." Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor. "So you will come then, Sherlock?"

"I'm busy." Sherlock said dismissively.

"She's our mother, Sherlock." Mycroft reminded him as if speaking to a particularly petulant child. John supposed that it was an apt description at times.

"Tea is boring." Sherlock said, plucking his violin strings. John whipped his head around to look at Sherlock, the tea-guzzling fiend.

"You never complain when I make tea for you." John pointed out. Sherlock considered this for a moment.

"Let me rephrase then. Tea with _Mycroft_ is boring and tea with mummy is insufferable." Sherlock smirked and began to play. John rolled his eyes.

"Was he always this stubborn?" John asked Mycroft, believing he already knew the answer.

"When it comes to spending time with family, yes. Though I can't say I blame him completely." Mycroft passed a hand over his eyes, fleetingly looking older than he was. "We had a complicated childhood."

"Yes, yes I guessed that much." John said, turning to watch Sherlock who was obviously listening to them. "Sherlock. It can't be that bad."

"Then you go." Sherlock stopped playing the violin.

"What?" John spluttered. "She's _your_ mother!"

"I will only go if John comes too." Sherlock told Mycroft, ignoring John's annoyed expression. "At least then she can focus on something other than my _career_ _choices_." Sherlock sneered the last two words.

"I am right here, you know." John said, and was suitably ignored.

"Excellent. Mother loves meeting strangers." Mycroft said, his tone leading John to believe that Mrs. Holmes would rather walk on glass. "Two o'clock, Sherlock."

Sherlock just waved him away and continued raking his bow over the violin's strings until Mycroft was safely out the door.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John sat heavily on the sofa.

"I thought you said it can't be that bad." Sherlock placed his violin carefully back in its case. "I think you need the chance to test that hypothesis."

"I meant for you! I've never even met the woman." John said futilely. Obviously Sherlock had made up his mind that John was going with him, and nothing John could say would change his mind. Also, John was increasingly curious about the woman who had had a hand in raising such interesting men as the Holmes brothers.

"You should dress nicely, as well John." Sherlock said off-handedly. "Your normal jumper and slacks won't impress mother much."

"What's wrong with my jumpers?" John asked defensively. Sherlock met his flat-mates eyes for a split second and John noticed the slight blush on his cheeks.

"I don't have anything against them personally. They...suit you." He coughed slightly. "But mother will be expecting us to dress up to see her."

"Why can't Mycroft go alone?" John groaned.

"Because he would rather face Attila the Hun's hordes, or the collected terrorists of the world, or stare down a rabid lion than be in a room alone with our mother." Sherlock sneered. "And just this once, I do not blame him."

John tried to get Sherlock to elaborate, but no explanation was forthcoming. John sighed and made his way to the stairs to go to his room. He needed to figure out what to wear, apparently.

"If you want a suggestion, John..." Sherlock began. "Blue is your best color."

John was surprised, but by the time he turned to look at his flat mate, his fingers were twitching and his eyes were glazed. Sherlock was in his mind palace. John rolled his eyes and went upstairs. It might be minutes, it might be hours before Sherlock emerged. John opened the door to his room and made his way to his closet. After a moment of thought, he pulled forth a royal blue button up shirt and dark blue jeans that were almost black. He paused for a moment and then added his black suit jacket. That would have to do.


	4. Chapter 4

"So..." John tapped his hands awkwardly on his lap. Sherlock, as he had been doing all day, ignored him silently. "Sherlock, you haven't said a word all day. Did you mess up your vocal chords during an experiment? Or get strangled by an assassin again?" John weakly attempted his joke. It definitely had seemed funnier in his head.

"John, my voice is fine." Sherlock finally said twenty minutes later. John jumped slightly. "You are about to meet my mother. She is not what you are expecting."

"Sorry, what am I expecting...?" John asked.

"A cold, humorless woman with my intellect and Mycroft's people skills. Probably assume she's a spy or some other ridiculous government job." Sherock rolled his eyes. "Not everyone in my family is like my brother and myself."

"Ok...so what should I expect?" John asked patiently, masking his annoyance. Sherlock noticed of course.

"An average height woman, white hair, slight osteoporosis, well-dressed but not overly fashionable. Wary of strangers, easy to talk to once she decides she likes you." Sherlock trailed off as his eyes met John's. John was trying not to laugh. "What?"

"She sounds lovely. Why is Mycroft so against being alone with her? You, too, for that matter." John said, laughter still barely below the surface.

"Oh, Mycroft finds the incessant questions about his job and his diet and his love life somewhat annoying. When I am there, she splits her attention. Hopefully with you there, you will receive the brunt of her-"

"Normal conversation? Small talk?" John interrupted. "What you've just described is a normal mother trying to catch up with her sons over tea and biscuits."

"Yes, well. My brother and I aren't exactly normal, now are we?" Sherlock asked curtly. John laughed and shrugged.

"Guess not." John looked out the window of the cab at the scenery. "Sherlock, have you got enough cash for this cab ride? We've been in here for awhile."

"Oh yes, that reminds me. Can I borrow some cash?" Sherlock inquired. John rolled his eyes and handed him the money. "We've still got a ways to go."

* * *

Finally, after more forced conversation and silence and scenery passing by the cab window, John caught sight of Sherlock's parents' home. It was a townhouse, good-sized but not huge.

"Sherlock, did you grow up here?"

"Yes. I spent my childhood in this bleak place." Sherlock muttered.

"I think it's lovely." John said, mostly to annoy his flatmate. Sherlock sighed dramatically. He paid the cabbie and walked with John towards the front door.

"Mycroft is already here." Sherlock said simply. John didn't really care to know what overturned pebble or bent blade of grass had alerted Sherlock to Mycroft's presence. He was beginning to feel rather nervous suddenly.

 _Relax, it's not like we're dating,_ John thought to himself. Sherlock opened the door without knocking and strode in. John followed at his heels. The interior was lovely, warm and inviting hues of browns and tans and yellows. A woman a few inches shorter than John appeared suddenly. She had gray hair pulled back tightly and her skin was lined but not wrinkly. Sherlock's mother locked gazes with her son and smiled, reaching up to embrace him. Sherlock stiffly returned the hug with one arm, scowling over her shoulder at John's smirk. Suddenly John found the Mrs. Holmes had directed her attention to him. She looked him up and down for a moment before obviously deciding something. Sherlock smiled, deducing his mother's approval. It seemed that Mycroft's worry was unfounded.

"You must be Dr. Watson," Mrs. Holmes said, holding out her hand. John took it.

"Please call me John." John shook her hand and released it. "It's nice to meet you."

"Beleive me, the pleasure is mine. I have dying to meet the only person my son hasn't managed to scare away." Mrs. Holmes joked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling his mother's focus. "Well, you do have an odd set of quirks dear. Don't deny it."

"You said something about tea." Sherlock said. John stared at him. No, she had not mentioned tea. Obviously Sherlock just wanted to change the subject.

"Oh, yes forgive me, Dr. Wat-I mean, John. Mycroft is already here, waiting in the sitting room." Mrs. Holmes shooed them in the right direction, Sherlock shedding his coat and blue scarf as he went. "I laid out a few healthy biscuits for him, he's gotten a bit pudgy." Mrs. Holmes whispered. Sherlock smirked and John stifled a smile.

"Ah, brother dear. So good to see you again." Sherlock said sweetly. Mycroft smiled at his brother in such a way that told John he would rather suck on a lemon than see Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes shot her boys warning looks that clearly said "Behave!"

"It's so good to see my boys together again. Now. Tell me everything. How's the detective agency getting along? I've been reading John's blog sporadically." Mrs. Holmes sat down next to Mycroft on the small sofa, John and Sherlock sat in the two armchairs. "Did Sherlock really forget that the Earth orbits the Sun?"

"That again." Sherlock muttered, scowling at Mycroft's smirk. "Of all the things John has put down in his blog, that is what you remember most?"

"Well, that and the hat. I love the hat." Mrs. Holmes joked. Suddenly she turned to Mycroft. "Why are you hardly ever in the stories?"

"I wasn't there." Mycroft answered stiffly. "I have responsibilities."

"You have a low-level job with the government. Certainly you could spend a little more time with your brother." His mother scolded. Mycroft sighed. "At least you and Sherlock have quit smoking. That's something. Do you smoke, John?"

"Oh, no. Of course not." John smiled.

And from there, every aspect of john's life, from childhood to university to the Army to living with Sherlock was dissected by the matriarch of the Holmes family. John got the feeling that perhaps the lady had been nice to him earlier to lull him into a sense of false security before interrogating him like a police officer interrogates a murder suspect. Once in awhile, John would catch one of the brother's eyes, trying to get them to interject, but they seemed content to let their mother's attention stay directed away from themselves.

When they finally left, Sherlock once more stiffly hugged his mother, ignored his brother, and walked outside. John shook Mrs. Holmes' hand and then Mycroft's, hearing her scold Mycroft about not having a girlfriend all the way out of the house.

"So why were you so worried about me meeting your mother? She was remarkably normal." John asked Sherlock later.

"Well, she doesn't always enjoy having her time with her son interrupted by strangers. It makes her feel like we don't want to be alone with her." Sherlock said from his place on the sofa without opening his eyes.

"But...you don't want to be alone with her. She's so normal it scares you." John smirked. "And Mycroft. He controls half the British government and he can't be alone with his own mother."

Sherlock's rich baritone laugh sounded. John smiled, pleased with himself.

"Ah, Sherlock. We need to talk..." John trailed off. Sherlock was staring blankly at the ceiling, hands folded under his chin. "And you're in your mind palace. Nevermind, then."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor of John's room in his mind palace. He was slowly cataloging every memory and piece of information he had on John, even managing to retrieve a few of the memories he had deleted at first meeting the man. They were neatly arranged around him, tucked away in their places.

There was the cane in the corner, the memory of the first chase down the streets of London.

John's cellphone was there too, all of the memories of phone calls and texts stored inside.

A gun. John protecting Sherlock from the cabbie.

Locked away in a safe was the bulletproof vest. The first time Sherlock had realized how much he truly depended on John, how far he was willing to go for him.

The tea set from his parent's house. Introducing John to his mother two days before.

And so many others. All around Sherlock were memories locked away inside of objects that were linked to John. The were tagged and cataloged for future storage. But there was one memory that Sherlock was contemplating more than any other at the moment.

The couch from the sitting room was in the center of the room, and Sherlock was watching his memory replay again for the tenth time. John curled into Sherlock's embrace, talking about the war and about their strange situation. John falling asleep. Sherlock knew that logically he shouldn't be able to watch the memory with him in it, but logic was boring. Finally, after watching it again, Sherlock stood and left the room.

* * *

"John," Sherlock said, shaking his flatmate by the shoulder. He had fallen asleep in his armchair after telling Sherlock that he didn't feel well. Sherlock's brow crinkled. John had a fever, one that was far higher than it had been when John fell asleep two hours before.

"No, go 'way," John slurred, trying to push Sherlock's hands away. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, you have a fever. The flu is going around and you work in a hospital. Not the best thing for your health." Sherlock tugged a boneless John up and supported most of his weight. John pushed him away.

"I'm awake." John stumbled towards the stairs, disoriented from exhaustion and illness. Fever. He needed to take some fever reducer, drink some water, and get in bed. "I need-"

"John, time for bed. I'll bring you what you need." Sherlock once again supported John's weight, wondering if perhaps he should take John to the hospital. His fever wasn't quite out of manageable range yet, so he decided against it. Though getting this sleepy John up the stairs seemed impossible. Sherlock changed directions and got John into his room and dumped him onto his bed. John watched him with glassy eyes as Sherlock removed his shoes and socks and covered John with his blankets.

"Sherlock. Water and ibuprofen." John ordered, though it sounded far less clear. Sherlock knew what he meant though. After downing the pills and two glasses of water, John snuggled down into his temporary bed and tried to go back to sleep. "Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock turned back from the door where he had been heading out of the room.

"'m cold," John mumbled.

"You're a doctor. You know it's an effect of the fever. You're burning up." Sherlock pointed out. But John was starting to shiver, his body trying to heat itself from an imagined coldness, and he looked absolutely miserable. "I'll get you some more blankets."

Ten minutes and a futile search later, Sherlock had only found one more blanket for John. A good reminder to replace the blankets he had set on fire for an experiment.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said after he tucked it around his shivering friend. John was trying so hard to stop, to make Sherlock not feel guilty, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering and clutching at the blankets.

"'s alright, Sherlock," John managed to say. "You c-can l-leave."

"You're freezing." Sherlock took a tentative step forward.

"No, f-fever. N-not cold. N-not r-r-really c-cold." John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

John started mightily when he felt his blankets lifted up and then slender arms wrapping around his waist to tug him into a lean chest.

"Sherlock?" John tried to tug himself away but Sherlock held on. "What are you doing?"

"You're cold. My body heat will help you to sleep until your fever breaks. Just relax," Sherlock's voice vibrated against John's back, strangely soothing. His voice took on a rare teasing quality. "Besides. I thought you liked cuddling with me the first time."

"Shut up, you." John muttered, curling his hands around Sherlock's warm arms, his shivers starting to slow. He was still cold, and maybe it was the fever talking, but it felt really nice to be held again. "We need to talk. About this. Us."

"Quiet, John. Time for you to rest. I need you at your best," Sherlock considered John's words. They really did need to talk, Sherlock supposed. John would need to verbalize his thoughts, work through his feelings with words. It was an unfortunate, if endearing, trait of his personality that John was so insecure about sexuality.

"You're not getting out of this," John mumbled sleepily, the sleeping pill Sherlock had given him in addition to the ibuprofen kicking in.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock laughed lightly. John settled closer into Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes.

"Just so you know..." John yawned, his shivering subsiding. "I know which sleeping pills look like ibuprofen."

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock let his head rest on his pillow behind John's.

* * *

John woke with a crushing headache and sore throat. His stomach didn't feel very steady either as John shifted in the confines of long arms.

Sherlock felt John's body jerking with coughs and managed to disentangle himself from the warmth of John's (still feverish) body. He was uncomfortable around illness to begin with and then to see John so sick made him feel somewhat useless. He searched his brain for information on flu treatments, coming up with tea and more ibuprofen.

John felt the empty space behind him when he woke, and hoped it was because SHerlock had gone to get him something for his throat. He felt like he had swallowed a box of razors. It hurt to swallow and to breathe and the move. His head was pounding and he reached for the nightstand blindly, hoping that Sherlock had left the ibuprofen there. His fingers closed over a bottle and he shook out two pills into his palm. Just he was swallowing them, a mug of tea was held before him.

"John?" Sherlock's usual bored tone was colored by concern. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you." John took the mug thankfully.

"Would you...I don't know, like something to eat?" Sherlock looked so uncomfortable that John smiled.

"No, thank you. Why are you being so nice?" John sipped at the tea, the pills going down better. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not nice."

"No, how could I forget? You're an utter wanker." John grinned mischievously after a coughing fit. "A wanker that likes to cuddle."

"I heard no complaints." Sherlock pouted.


End file.
